Reprieve
by MondayVibes
Summary: Edward couldn't really say it was peaceful in the trenches after the sun had fallen, but at least it was a reprieve from the blood-soaked hell that took place during the day.


**Disclaimer:** Fullmetal Alchemist/Hagane no RenkinRutsushi are Arakawa-san's toys. I just borrow them sometimes.

 **Author's Note:** Here's a surprise for **Akarri** , just because I can. (This was a bit of a rush, so have fun!)

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 **Reprieve**

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While Edward couldn't say it was peaceful in the trenches after the sun had fallen and the chatter of machine gun fire had died down, he could at least say it was a reprieve from the blood-soaked hell that was war—a few hours to close his eyes and pretend to sleep, to breathe and tremble and turn his battles inward, to offer paper-thin grins to the enlisted men who followed his command.

But then the miserable mess of half-rain and half-hail rolled in above the trenches around midnight, and he couldn't even do that. The freezing water cascaded into the front trenches, creating bubbling streams that soaked blue-clad soldiers to the ankles. They rushed to toss oiled cloth over machine guns and mortars, their noses pink and fingers trembling as they fought the wind to tie the cloth down.

At least the sand bags were holding, which meant they wouldn't have to try to shore up collapsed walls. And the muddy water was following a path east, to the low ground and the ditch he'd been ordered to transmute for this very reason.

Still, if they couldn't wrap up this nightmare soon, it'd be exposure rather than gunfire that the high ups would really have to start worrying about.

Bastards were stupid for not worrying about it now, really, since so many people were—

 _No_.

The bolthole he'd crawled his way into was already small—barely more than a hole carved into the trench wall, just big enough for a man and his rucksack—but Edward still brought his knees closer to his chest, trapped his fingers between his thighs to eek out some warmth, hunched his shoulders until he was little more than a soggy mound of blue wool uniform and white fur-lined coat. Screwed up his face and buried it into the space between his legs and his chest.

So long as he stayed like this, eyes tightly shut, face hidden, flesh hidden, once-blond hair shorn against fleas and stiff with mud, coat streaked with soot and filth and blood and fuck knew what else… Maybe no one would realize who he was. Maybe no one would ask him to transmute walls and spikes and crevasses that ate enemy soldiers whole. Maybe they wouldn't notice him at all.

He curled up even tighter.

Maybe they would just… forget about him, leave him behind during the next push forward, leave him in this muddy little hovel until the cold ate away at his fingers and snapped up his skin and some artillery shell caved in the earthen walls around him and—

He dragged his eyes open. Cut off that line of thought as quickly and cleanly as he could, and didn't let his mind pull at the stray threads left behind.

And he needed to write Al a letter. That's all. That's it. And he needed to actually _do_ it this time, too.

His head jerked upward, cast a quick glance along the trench. The machinery was covered and tied down now, and most of the men had found shelter. There weren't any gas lanterns—not this close to the enemy, who could catch the moving shadows and get in a few lucky shots—but covered candles stood in as replacements, casting a flickering orange light that caught against the deluge and turned it silver.

It would be just enough for him to see his pencil move, if he squinted. Good enough.

He dug through the worn canvas rucksack at his feet. His fingers trembled even though they weren't cold—not anymore, at least—but he still managed to drag out his battered leather notebook and a stubby, dull pencil.

He threw himself back against the muddy wall, flipped through the pages of alchemical notes and chemical equations until he found a blank one—

—and stared dully at the page.

What… what was he supposed to say? After all the long, lonely months here, he still hadn't written to his little brother. Not once. Every time he tried, he just…

But _this_ time, he'd do it. Al would want to hear from him. Would want to know his older brother was okay. Would want to know about Hawkeye and Musta—

Oh, hell. Would _would_ he say? Al didn't need to know.

He took a deep breath, held it, watched it mist out from between his chapped lips and drift away.

 _Dear Al,_

 _The weather here is kind of shitty, but you've probably already figured that out, so that's not really news. It's not as bad as you're probably thinking, though. It's cold, but at least the weather's holding off. Hasn't rained in a week._

 _Mustang's being his normal bastard self, but Hawkeye's here to keep him in line. Havoc—_

The pencil froze in his hand. His eyes blurred with the pressure of the lies, and he dashed his fingers over his face to clear them away.

Al would know. There was no way he wouldn't be able to see through Edward's clumsy scrawl and catch a pin-hole glimpse of what his older brother wasn't saying. Would probably worry all the more for it, and that would just make the letter completely useless, if he was trying to try to comfort Al.

The curse that dropped from his lips was more out of habit than anything. Automail fingers, stiff and unwieldy from the mud and the cold, tore the letter out of his notebook and tossed it into the trench. The muddy little stream snatched it up, and it wilted and sank as the water dragged it away.

 _Dear Al,_

 _The weather's shit and I'm freezing cold all the time. The medic says that I have frostbite on my shoulder and leg, and it's not so bad right now but it's going to cause permanent damage if we have to fight through the winter._

 _When Mustang found out, he tried to get me sent back from the front lines, but the higher ups didn't want to hear it. Then he got sent away because a wave of ship fever tore through the ranks and he got it because the idiot was half-starving himself. We're on rations and they don't account for automail and I didn't know it at the time, but the bastard was giving me half his rations because there just wasn't enough. If he dies, too, it'll be all my fault, and I'm so fucking scared they're going to send him south in a box like they did to Havoc and Breda—_

No. No no no fucking way was he going to tell Al all of that. He'd get worried and worked up and would do something stupid. Besides, Edward'd never be allowed to send it anyway. The censors would burn the letter; he'd end up getting a lecture about writing down information that the Drachmans could use if they attacked the supply caravans.

It was a real risk, he reminded himself dully as he watched the torn sheet drown. They'd already done it three times.

 _Dear Al,_

 _The enlisted men are saying that, if we have to fight through another winter, we probably won't see next spring—_

No.

 _Dear Al,_

 _It's all fuckin' roses and daisies here, and I don't ever wake up screaming and wondering if I'm going to die before the next nightfall—_

No.

 _Dear Al,_

 _Sometimes, I think dying wouldn't be so bad._

Hell no.

He let his lips part, and drew another deep, steadying breath into his lungs. The frosty air dragged sharp fingers along his nose and throat and settled deep in his ribs. Twined around his heart and squeezed. He swallowed heavily once, then again, then gave up when it stayed firmly seated.

A gust of wind dashed down the trenches, and a few half-frozen droplets scored hits on his muddied face. He didn't bother wiping them away. Maybe… maybe no news was good news. Maybe Al would understand that there just wasn't really anything to say. Maybe—

The ice in his heart tightened, and he squirmed in protest. The half dozen letters in his breast pocket, each more anxious and fretful than the last, caught against the worn blue wool. Tugged, then surrendered, folding and creasing in their confine.

A few of the enlisted men dashed past his bolthole, heads ducked against the wind and the water, boots splashing in the stream as they went. In the distance, someone called out, but Edward couldn't make out the words.

Changing the sentries, probably. They tended to do that at four in the morning.

He glanced down at the blank sheet before him, ran his gaze along the torn edges nestled so close to the spine. Sighed. Tightened his grip on the pencil.

 _Dear Al,_

 _The weather's shit, but it's late autumn in Drachma, so I'm sure that's a real fucking surprise. No one wants to spend another winter up here, so we're all hoping that things'll get sorted out soon._

 _I'm still under the bastard's command, even after all this time. I've been working with Hawkeye a lot these past few weeks, though, so that's cool._

 _Really, there isn't much to talk about on my end. Same old, same old. I want to hear what you've been up to, Al. How are things in Resembool? How was the Harvest Festival? Are the Carpenter sisters still making eyes at you? Winry said that they were in her letter._

 _Speaking of, did—_

"Edward." A voice, hoarse and low and female, made him jump. A streak of graphite dashed across the page. "There you are."

He sighed, loosened his grip on his pencil. Glanced up and caught sight of Hawkeye. Her hair was shorn just as his was, and her face was thin beneath the smear of dirt, but she still offered him a ghost of a smile when he met her gaze.

"Lieutenant Colonel Lockheed wants to see you," she said. "He wants to discuss some options for breaking through their western flank. Until Colonel Mustang returns, I've no doubt that you can expect this to happen increasingly oft—"

But then her eyes flickered to the notebook in his lap, the pencil in his hand, and her shoulders dropped just a bare inch. "If you want to finish up, though, I'm sure it can wait a few moments."

His eyes dropped back down to the letter. For once—for the first time—he'd actually gotten somewhere—

But the Lieutenant was right—with Mustang out of the picture and the half dozen others dead or injured or shell shocked, he was the only alchemist left. He was the only human weapon they could count on to—to distract the enemy or bring them down with an accuracy the artillery could never achieve. To churn up blood and cut short battle cries. To—

He shook his head, sent those thoughts flying. Snapped his notebook shut. Stuffed it and the pencil back into his rucksack. Breaktime was over. Time to reach in deep, past the horror and misery and the ice in his heart, and drag the Fullmetal Alchemist out again.

"No," he told her, and his voice held a steel that would make Mustang proud. He dragged himself out of the little bolthole, squared his shoulders. "Wasn't a big deal, anyway. Let's get moving, Lieutenant, and see what Lockheed wants."

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 **Author's Note:** So, I gave myself two hours to write like a maniac… and this is what came up. It hasn't been beta'ed, so I'm sorry.


End file.
